Category Archives: Adulthood

Monday I turn 32. To me this means I’m wholly and really in my 30’s, no longer a new graduate out of the tumultuous 20’s. Next stop is 40, then after that I can only assume is death.

Just teasing. I actually like being in my 30’s, and have become quite the pro at 30ing. My favorite evenings include a bubble bath, glass of wine, and a riveting book. I get annoyed when I wind up at loud bars where drunk 25-year-olds behave like teething infants. I injure myself sleeping, have no patience for uninteresting people, and enjoy naps.

Pretty sure that last sentence makes me a cat, but maybe that’s something we should all come to terms with — 30-year-olds are really just giant house cats.

Well sometimes us house cats have birthdays, which does inadvertently throw us off our game a bit. If you or someone you know will soon be enduring a 30-something birthday, I offer this guide for handling it like the power suit you are.

Rule #1: Have an Existential Crisis

If you aren’t having routine existential crises in your 30’s, there’s something wrong with you. We’re at that age where it is expected we’ve done something with ourselves. In your 20’s you have a hall pass, given that you might be in school, just starting your career, or whatever. But in your 30’s…society wants proof you haven’t totally pissed away your life up until now.

If you don’t have these as often as I do (bi-monthly), don’t worry. When your birthday comes around you will most certainly have an existential crisis. Here are some fun little nuggets to get the ball rolling: Are you in the right career? Are you investing enough in retirement? Are you dating the right person? Are you dating enough? Or if you’re married, did you marry the right person?

Are you fulfilling your true purpose as a unique and special snowflake?

This is an opportunity for you to get creative here. Feel free to press full-throttle on this one, the options for questioning your very existence are endless.

Rule #2: Take the Day Off Work

You don’t have time to worry about work right now. You are about to commemorate the day the world got its greatest gift, YOU. Go l-i-v-i-n. It amazes me that people go to work on their birthdays, it’s a national holiday for fuck’s sake! Jesus takes the day off on his birthday and distracts us with a fat man who gives us presents and cookies so we won’t notice he’s napping. Don’t you want to do what Jesus does? Didn’t you wear a WWJD bracelet in the 90’s?!

Rule #3: Treat Yo Self

Buy shit. Not what you need, not what you should have, what you want. This is the time to empty that Amazon or Nordstrom shopping cart by BUYING IT ALL. This is also when you upgrade some of the crap lying around you keep putting up with. Maybe your kitchen knives are as dull as your aunt, making you loathe cutting even the softest of vegetables. Well waddle yourself down to your local Williams-Sonoma and treat yo self to a fancy new Wüsthof set.

If you’d like some inspiration, for my birthday this year I bought myself a delightful little tea kettle (it whistles!) and a new Stephen King book*. See, told you I’m good at 30ing.

I’ll also go shopping on Saturday and get a new outfit because I’m in my 30’s, which means I’m not poor, and I CAN.

*Okay, it’s his book On Writing, because I still haven’t gotten over It or The Shining yet to pick up any of his terrifying novels any time soon. I realize that makes me a giant fluffy chicken but, well, suck it.

Rule #4: Watch a Video with Screaming Goats

Few things can consistently make me laugh as much as screaming goats, and if you still have a pulse that means they will make you laugh too. Just google screaming goats and you’ll find yourself a whole mess of gold.

Rule #5: Go Do Something You Love Alone

Do you love hiking? Climb that mountain by yourself. Like the movies? Get a ticket for one and don’t share that candy with nobody. Are you a food connoisseur (I hate the term foodie, it’s just as stupid as selfie)? Go to a nice restaurant, get a table for one, and order whatever you want.

Once you’re there, soak deeply into your me-time. Listen to the voices in your head, the ones you are constantly tuning out with work, friends, busyness and stress. There’s something uniquely freeing about doing activities seemingly reserved for grouped outings on your own. You are secure enough in your own skin at this age, you don’t need a gaggle of pals swarming around you everywhere you sit down. Take the time to realize you really are okay alone.

Rule #6: Look Back Exactly 10 years Ago to See How Far You’ve Come

It’s pretty incredible to think that 10 years ago you were a full fledged adult. You had already accomplished so much! You moved out of your parents’ house, maybe went to college, held down a job?! Damn! Look through old photos and remember what it felt like. What were your goals? What were you trying to do? Ruminate on it for a while, maybe an hour or two, or even make an evening of it.

Then when you come up out of it, look at your life now. OMG you have done WAY MORE since then! I can tell you one thing, 10-year-ago me would never ever believe all the things I’ve been through and accomplished by 32. I’m confident you’ll come to the same conclusion.

Oldest and youngest brothers, myself ~21-years-old, and my beautiful grandmother at her house // Kirkland, WA

All that said, birthdays can be hard in your 30’s. I know it is for me sometimes. But the good news is, we’re still super young. PLUS, science is getting better everyday, which means the wrinkle creams that will be out in 20 years are going to be RAD and will WORK.

We have a lot of life to live, and are still growing and learning. As a dear friend said to me recently about how I am in this life, “You’re not a bull in a china closet. You’re…a baby deer in a china closet. You’re still figuring out what to do with your arms and legs yet.”

Here’s to another year, in a decade of still figuring out what to do with these arms and legs.

On this, the eve of my father’s passing, I wonder what it was like for him in his final hours. What memories flew through his mind. What was he doing? What did he have to eat?

Four years ago he was still alive right now. Sick, dying, sipping his final drinks of air in this life.

I wonder. Will I find that peace? Will there be a day when this day is not excruciating? As the tears stream down my cheeks, my dog cuddles close to my leg, in an attempt to offer comfort either for her or for myself. The radio changes from one painful song to another on my Death Cab internet radio station.

Pretty sick choice of music now that I think about it. Neutral Milk Hotel happens to be playing, with the tangible melancholy I crave at this moment. It is comforting in that perhaps I am not alone in my grief, as well as not alone on this earth.

Dad I miss you especially this year. It is never easy, but this year the pain is overwhelming.

I closed down when I lost you. Weeks after I fell to my knees in disbelief you were gone, after I watched the soldiers carry you to your grave, after I heard the final taps and screamed in agonizing horror. I still cannot see a flag draped over a casket without bursting into tears.

The grief proved too much to bear. I couldn’t take it anymore. I became afraid to love because I was afraid to ache. I decided to abandon all of it.

Yet recently I took a personal vow that numbness will not be the guide of my life. I’ve allowed my heart to be broken, as it is now. It has however, yet to sing.

Today, no singing will escape this heart nor these lips. No joy in my heart can be found in this moment, as I grieve for myself, grieve you are not here, grieve for the realization that I really am alone.

I miss you. I fucking miss you and wish I could hear your voice again. That accent, charming smile, your ability to reliably find something to laugh about. You never let me get away with tears for long, and were quick to find a way to lighten my mood.

You are not here to lighten my mood. No one really is and at the moment, I prefer it that way. I’ve spent the last few weeks with a machete, cutting relationships and carving them into what they should or shouldn’t be. My tolerance is low and standards are high, just like yours always were. Now is the time to follow those who will build, not tear down, provide light in a world we often see so dark and lonely.

Tonight I will likely rest little. Yet one thing I can find a shred of peace in is knowing that you, the first leading man in my life, are resting comfortably right now in peace.

Oh the cliche things you are going to hear on this, the infamous Valentine’s Day. From grumpy single people who declare their only true love is wine, to proudly single people who are perfectly self satisfied and don’t need nothin’ you got to offer. Prepare yourself for couples professing their undying love for each other everywhere you turn, especially all over social media. Enjoy reading how lucky they feel that they have found their Other and how smart, hot, and not-you their Other is.

I almost wish I could say that I look down my nose at Valentine’s Day as a fabrication of Hallmark, capitalism and people in bad relationships who need an excuse to spice things up. If only I thought everyone in a relationship today is an obnoxious shmuck who is purposefully rubbing my face in my singledom, relishing that they don’t have to deal with drudging this holiday alone.

But, I don’t. I love Valentine’s Day. Yes that’s unhip and completely unoriginal, but as per usual, totally fine with that. Have said it before and will say it again: I love love.

It’s been about 10 years since I’ve spent a Valentine’s Day as single folk, and for some reason I’m looking forward to going it alone. Maybe it’s because I don’t have to worry about dinner reservations anywhere and haven’t had to pick out a sassy little red number to wear for a special Him. I didn’t spend 30 minutes scouring the Valentine’s Day aisle at the very last minute. Normally I’m panicking among the other V-Day slackers trying to pick a clever card that isn’t trite or gooshy, and my options are out of the garbage ones that are left over by the people who are competently prepared in their lives.

Nope. None of that. Today I’m going to enjoy watching others celebrate and enjoy the lack of pressure to come up with something sweet. I am genuinely happy for them, because it’s an amazing feeling to be loved exclusively by another person.

Yea yea, I’m sitting here talking about me and how for some reason I feel reasonably secure. But I want to share this information because I know for some people today is a rough day. I’m here to point out today doesn’t have to be crappy or end in a drunken lonely stupor. I’m writing this for you, person on your phone or desktop. It doesn’t matter if you are or are not in a relationship, I genuinely hope you feel loved today.

I would think it’s easier for people in a relationship to enjoy the holiday, so I’ll let you be. But for those who are single, here’s how I’m approaching it. I don’t know what is going to happen today and I find that super exciting. Today, just like any other day, has nothing romantic in store expected whatsoever.

The only thing that today represents is possibility. And in that, feel loved.

I am totally that person. Overwhelmed with a feverish nervousness about halfway through my Sunday. Anxiety cues like playing with my hair or chewing extra sticks of gum are noticeable as I’m wondering how full my inbox will be when I finally arrive back in the office in just a few short hours.

Some Sunday nights are spent having nightmares of endless meetings. Others are sprinkled with blissful dreams of the most epic quitting stories imaginable. In one I, the heroine, am hoisted on the shoulders of my colleagues as we all march out into the streets. Applause at my bold renouncement of lacking vacation time and stern words at management ring out into the southern California suburb. Out of nowhere my co-workers will have made signs reading things like, “Joni for President!” or “In Joni we trust!”

The delusions of grandeur are endless. I definitely relate with JD from Scrubs in my daydream adventures for those times when I actually am in the office. In nearly all of the 9,000 meetings we have a day, I’m off in dreamland staring blankly at an upper corner of the ceiling. After a few minutes a quiet giggle will escape and my boss will stop everything to ask sternly, “What’s so funny??” I quickly have to stammer some intelligible response related to the TPS reports they were talking about because I was definitely not imagining Sam from accounting finally losing it, taking off his pants and streaking out of the room shouting obscenities about too many pricing plans.

Here’s the big annoying problem though. Every few hours or so, my stomach makes this funny sound. It’s not just every now and then, this happens every single day. The only way to shut it up is to place food in my mouth and swallow it. And the only way to get food? MONEY! That or farming, but if you’ve ever seen any houseplant given to me (I don’t buy the plants, I know better), you’ll understand that my house is pretty much a hospice where plants are sent to die.

Ah money and capitalism. This society wasn’t built in a way to support artists or dream having. Work is the American way, and the more you do it, the more freedom you’ll be able to buy. Kind of like an old German saying, “Arbeit Macht Frei.” That means “Work makes you free.” Oh and also, that lil idiom was adorned on many Nazi concentration camp gates. That was the first thing prisoners saw as they marched into camps, intended to teach them that if they just worked hard enough, they could be set free.

No I’m not suggesting the American working system is anything at all like the horrors that occurred in the late 30’s/early 40’s, but the slogan itself is something to think about. Do we, perhaps, in a teeny tiny way totally believe this? I think we do, as a quick google search of the saying brought me examples of people still trying to use it legitimately, such as a publication offering it as advice for unemployed graduates or this inspirational speaker bringing it home as a key to success.

I’m not contesting the value of work, it’s extremely important. No arguments there, get a job. I tell my dog that all the time but she just sleeps all day and expects me to do everything….damn gold digger.

But I think we’ve laid a simplistic model on the working world that doesn’t necessarily fit every person. I doubt I’m the only one who gets the Sunday sickness and Monday depression. There’s millions of other people like me who celebrate Thursday nights like a weekly Christmas Eve, enjoying wine in celebration of the Christmas-like Friday of freedom to come. Gone for two whole days are the to do lists, management woes, and crabby emails.

I completely accept that I’ve put myself in this particular situation of 9-5 employment. I spent my 20’s in college and shit for pay jobs, so I have some bills to take care of. Tuition is crazy expensive and I didn’t have any money, but I’m such a narcissistic asshole that I wanted to go to college and post-grad anyway. No my parents didn’t help me and no I’m not upset about it. Yes I’m pissed off at my government for making it so hard for young people who want to read books and understand more about the world, but that’s another topic.

At the end of the day, tuition bills and starting from essentially the bottom has me and millions of others working for the man. Which is totally fine for some people…but I’m here to suggest that the simple, tidy, Monday through Friday, 9-5 schedule isn’t going to glean as much productivity out of some of us. Creativity doesn’t always happen when you want it to. Sometimes it wakes you up in the middle of the night. Sometimes it occurs in the middle of the big game. The model of this-is-when-you-work-no-ifs-ands-or-buts might work just fine for some people. But for some of us it just doesn’t – and we are miserable because of it.

This is why school is so awesome for people like me. You have a deadline and then YOU figure out when you need to write that paper. YOU set up the study sessions in the middle of the night and it’s YOUR ass at the end of the day if the quality of work is a failure. It takes self-discipline, time management, responsibility and careful planning. Kind of like the owners of businesses – it’s their ass if the business fails.

Those of you having convulsions right now at the very thought of deadlines, papers and/or academia in general…then maybe the 9-5 is a good thing for you and that’s awesome. We need people like that, who enjoy the predicability of work, can be counted on to be there, answer phones and manage others. But for people like me, the convulsions on Sunday eve, Monday morning, are getting ridiculous.

Therefore, I’m doing something about it, and am excited for what’s coming up next. But how about you?

Are you in this position? Then what are you going to do? What is going to happen this week to change your life? Or have you found a model that works for you and you truly enjoy work? I want to hear about it and encourage you, for no one should have to face the first world problem that is Mondays alone.

Ah November. For some reason this month spawns some of the funniest Internet behavior. I realize few of you pay attention as much as I do, which is likely why you are my friend and not an internet basement troll with Cheetos on your chest. Thank you for that. However somehow, I’m able to pay ample attention and remain mostly Cheeto-free. What can I say, I’m a multi-tasker. You’re welcome.

Before I begin, please note: I’m a blog writer, therefore my (notice the mention of self frequently in “I,” “me,” and “myself,”) narcissism will always trump yours, so there’s no need to get offended. This is all in good fun and I love reading your posts, you beautiful person, you.

Some of the most entertaining social media trends I’ve noticed this month include:

1) 7, 9 or 14 things you never knew about me

2) Movember

3) Posting something to be thankful for every day

The first of these silly trends is engulfing my Facebook feed like a bad radio jingle engulfs the brain, the short witty posts taken over by long, LONG paragraphs of information about people I either know extremely well, or don’t know at all. (“Why do you have Facebook friends you don’t know very well Joni? Isn’t that dangerous?” No, I’m not afraid of machines and I never watched poltergeist.) What’s funny is this really isn’t an exercise of your narcissism, but rather of mine.

Whenever I read one of those posts, I feel like I can pat myself on the back when, “Ah HA! I knew that about you!!!” I’m a champion. I’m a knower of knowledge you deem interesting enough to post publically to the world, but not so much to SAY it out loud to most people in person. Wait…that’s not much of an accomplishment at all…but for some reason I really do feel fantastic when I know that thing. Like a test of our friendship that I passed and yay, I win.

After celebration and cheering that I know things, I then realize that hardly any of these posts are really that revealing. This is the Internet after all and we have an image to manage. Of course posters are going to select cute flattering things like, “I had 12 boyfriends in high school and not one of them dumped me,” or “I went to the Olympics and I won it all,” or “I can play 9 instruments with my feet.” Those do take up most of these posts, although I have read some that are truly sad and well, I just can’t comment on that. I’m sorry that happened to you and would like to extend my e-hug here and now.

Although there is something lacking. I have yet to see posts revealing the DUI’s I know you have, the “I made out with my 60 year old math teacher,” or the “I wet the bed till I was 11.” Step it up people! Give us the good stuff. I think we could improve this game immensely if just one of those “revealing” somethings was of an embarrassing nature. If the purpose of posting these things was really so we could get to know the writer better, then share away.

“OK Joni, why don’t you write one?” Fool, I have a blog, you know more than enough about me.

2) Movember

A long, long time ago, back before we were writing years that started with “20,” a friend of mine started a website. He gathered all the dudes he knew and asked them to shave their faces on October 31, and made them promise to not shave again until December 1st. A catch to this challenge was they had to take a picture of themselves every single day, preferably in the same place with the same expression, and post this image to the website he doth coined, “Novembeard.”

I thought it was the damn near funniest thing I’d ever heard. Fortunately the fella I was with at the time was beard-growing-inept, so I didn’t suffer much of the consequences of this challenge and could simply enjoy the sport of it.

All the said, what the HELL is Movember??? I understand it has some of the same premises as Novembeard, but it has this terrible Mo-town feel to it, and damn it I hate disco. Where’s the structure? Novembeard was so easy….shave, grow, picture, post, girlfriends are stuck with lumberjacks for a month, the end. Even the name was obvious…in November we grow beards, ergo Novem + beard. It’s so simple. Movember just sounds like Puff Daddy or P Diddy or whatever had mo money and mo problems in movember. And that’s a terrible song and I don’t want to think about it for an entire month.

Or maybe, is “Mo” someone’s confused way of trying to spell “Mustache” and got frustrated by the second letter and gave up? Or are we skipping all the fun parts of Novembeard and just pissing off girls for the month of November by subjecting us to nasty patchy facial hair?

Someone please explain this to me. I don’t know. I’m confused. Friend who started Novembeard, I think you have some work to do.

3) Posting Something to be Thankful for Everyday

I think this trend has a good spirit to it. You’re doing a great job trying to see the cup half full and I appreciate you for it. Somewhat on this topic, I watched an interview of Dave Matthews recently, and love or hate the guy, he made a good point. He was asked if he was the type of person who sees the world as half full or half empty. Loosely transcribed…

“Half empty or half full…what’s the fucking difference? Regardless of your answer, you have the same amount of whatever in a cup.”

It is in fact the same amount of whatever in a cup. I know, I know, it’s all about perception and attitude, and that’s what this whole thing is about. However it also suffers some of the same consequences as #1, as often times it kiiiiinda sounds like bragging.

“I am so grateful for this fatty diamond ring on my finger!”

“I have the hottest girlfriend alive,”

“I have traveled all over the world while you sat at your desk, sssssucker.”

Emphasis added. What can I say, I’m happy for you and the things that you’re grateful for and your ability to share it. But there’s something that prevents my ability to do it. It’s not that I don’t have things to be grateful for, because I do. I just simply can’t post something without thinking about someone I know who doesn’t have that thing and how my post might make them feel bad.

Which happens to me. I read some of these posts and some make me sad. Yes, I’m 30, divorced and have no children. But YAY you already have 4 kids and your spouse is loaded and you don’t work. Worse still are those bastards who post about their exotic travels around the world, to far reaching places and blah blah blah…my jealousy overfloweth. Yes that’s totally my problem, and I can simply hit hide, but I don’t want to hide you from my life. Hence, I don’t want to do that to others. I don’t live a glamorous or really very interesting life at all, but I’m sure there’s someone out there who finds it mildly interesting or even envy worthy. I don’t want to be the reason for envy if I can help it.ility to do it. It’s not that I don’t have things to be grateful for, because I do. I just simply can’t post something without thinking about someone I know who doesn’t have that thing and wants that thing and how my post might make them feel bad.

All that said, social media is a silly, hairy place to be in November. I honestly think we are really bored in November, feeling a little frisky, funky, and that’s what sparks all of this. On Halloween we are encouraged to be absolutely insane, dress like whoever we want and let our imaginations run wild. After Halloween we know that Christmas is around the corner, but we fight every urge to not be the weirdo who hangs their Christmas lights up before Thanksgiving. Just…say…NO…

So our imaginations are running wild and we have nothing to do. Men grow out their facial hair for some god forsaken reason, and the whole of us are busy posting things about ourselves. I do like reading about you and just kidding when I joke that you’re somewhat full of yourself. I honestly think people need more outlets for this kind of self-expression. Ta-daaaaa, that’s why I haz blog. I can’t tell you how freeing it is to sit here all the time and word vomit and even better when people say they like it. I encourage you to keep going and share away, well beyond November…but also request that we get at least one good bed wetting story every now and then.

Yesterday I decided to make a healthy, delicious breakfast. I got out the kale and three eggs, then began a short pre-cooking pep-talk, “Yes. You can cook. You can make this kale egg white scramble and by God, it will be delicious. “

About 4 minutes later, 2 egg whites were in the sink, while an egg yellow and 3 bits of shell made it to the mixing bowl. I grabbed another couple of eggs and was somehow able to get the damn egg whites separated out as I originally intended. As I was egg shifting and picking out shells, the burning kale got my attention. Quickly I shifted my efforts in a last ditch attempt to save this dish. About 3 minutes later, I had myself something that resembled my original intention. Voila..!?

A little ketchup and a dash of pride in knowing that I was the one who pulled this creation off was reason enough for me to enjoy it. I don’t know, it just sounded fancy, and a little better than the ole banana and bag of cheerios I barely have time for as I normally stress eat my breakfast at my desk. I instead made time for myself to prepare a meal, and sit down at my own dining room table by myself to eat breakfast.

And you know why? Because that’s what 30-year-olds do. That’s right fuckers. I am turning THIRTY on Saturday – I have only a few more days to go before I can officially say I have successfully passed one of the most challenging decades in human existence.

I wish I could say I’ve been cool about it. As though I have some sort of Katherine Hepburn-relaxed-nonchalant attitude about it. “Sure everyone, I am happy to report the past few months I’ve been trendy in embracing my age and rocking it because it doesn’t bother me at all.”

Welp, sorry, I’m not that cool. I’ve never claimed to be cool, and here again is another circumstance of my overthinking and control-freakish true self rearing its ridiculous head. “Wait a second….I’m going to turn 30, and there’s nothing I can do about it? Why didn’t anyone ask me if I was ready?? Where is the stop clock on this thing?”

Have you ever seen that episode of Friends where they all turn 30? The episode is set on Rachel’s 30th birthday, and the episode walks us through everyone’s 30th birthdays. Monica gets super hammered, Ross irresponsibly buys a new red convertible, and Joey just screams at God, “Why God?! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO US!?” Rachel in the end breaks up with her 24-year-old boyfriend, realizing she needs to think about baby-making and marriage-doing. It’s basically an episode of panic and chaos over one of the worst things that can happen.

I first watched that episode probably when I was 19 or so. I’ve probably watched/listened to hundreds of ideological shows, films, songs, advertisements professing to me, “30 is old. Don’t turn 30 if you still like fun having. The second you turn 30 no more playing with boys and by god you may not look sexy any more.” Now you tell me, how the hell is any honest 29-year-old supposed to beat back all that?

30 is horrifying for 3 reasons:

1) 30 is the mark of an adult

2) 30 is too old to have fun

3) You’re going to stop looking good

Let’s think about how birthdays go in our first 29 years. Getting older always meant one more step to more freedoms.

16 – yes I can drive!

18 – yes I can…buy porn? Uuuh, cigarettes? Hurry up 21.

21 – YAHOO! Beer!

And that’s it. Around 22 you finish college, maybe hit up grad school, but after 25 the birthdays start getting scarier. It no longer becomes a number of fun and new freedoms, it starts becoming a countdown to other things. Looking worse, retirement, and death, namely.

Sorry to be so grim about it, but it’s kinda true! And I’m sick of it. I’m sick of TV shows telling me that men my age prefer 18-year-old girls. Maybe some pervs do, and to them, enjoy those Girls Gone Wild reruns in your creepy basement. For the rest of us, I’m pretty sure all the decent dudes in my age range are perfectly happy with ladies in their 20’s as well as 30’s. So there’s one attack, 30 = no longer beautiful. I call bullshit on that, 30 is a great age – just because we aren’t little girls or boys, we are men and women with confidence and some sort of success, and that’s beautiful.

Now for the no-fun assumption slapped on 30-year-olds. Yes I have a job and pay my bills, but that doesn’t make me lame. Have you ever been to karaoke with me? I’m still really fun, even the hippest of hipsters crack a smile and can figure out how to have a good time. That and now I’m not quite as stressed out because you know what? I pay my bills and have a job.

I completely disagree that there is a direct correlation of getting older to less-fun. For example, I have been to tailgate parties. And while college kids are having a blast, I’m not sure they are having the most fun of everyone. It’s the old people with their season passes, who have all their gear well prepared, plenty of food and friends. They have always been the nicest, laugh the loudest, and are more willing to share their wealth and joy with anyone who will cheer for their team. Plus, they play the craziest beer games I’ve ever played. Seriously.

I don’t think life and fun stop at 30. Or when you get married. Or have kids. In fact, I think life gets a little more fun, because you know better who you are and where you’re going. The ambiguity of the 20’s was exhilarating in some respects, but frankly I love knowing where I’m going and am stoked to get there.

My high school class is all turning 30 this year, and one by one we are crossing that line. I’ve seen several take that step already and noticed that none of them exploded or developed instant wrinkles or bulbous sores all over themselves.

Therefore, I’m going to make the choice to ignore the bullshit surrounding 30. I’m not going to lie about it, I’m nervous and realize I’ll never be cool, but I’m going to make that effort to not care and get over it. At 30, I will be a badass, will have fun, and will continue to wear what I want, ignoring what society tells me a 30 year old is supposed to look like. I will behave as I please, and feel confident in who I am.

Here is to all of us turning 30 this year – you did it!! You survived your 20’s. Here’s to holding our heads up high and approaching it like any other fun birthday – being silly, joyful, and celebrating the blessing that is this life.

One of my favorite Dr Seuss quotes is, “Be who you are and say what you mean [feel], because those who mind don’t matter and those who matter don’t mind.”

I tell you, while this fellow wrote children’s books and poetry, I find his words just as inspirational as Tony Robbins’ and as comforting as chocolate chip cookies. This one in particular is a healthy reminder that people are going to say things to you and sometimes it’s going to be painful, but you can’t stop saying what you mean. I know, I really reached deep for that one.

Yet I point out this quote today because lately, I’ve been letting it all get to me. An important individual at work is pretty ferocious with attacking words these days, and I’m growing weary (hence the slow down in posts lately). Additionally I’ve mentioned in a previous blog some of the struggles I’ve had in wedding planning and realizing that I’m just not going to make everyone happy. Which is kind of a bummer.

But most of all, I’ve been learning a lot from you, the readers of this blog. I want to thank you. While I realize this is a relatively small audience in the grand scope of public writing, it matters to me what people think and I care about your opinions and thank you for sharing them.

With all that, I’m learning why occasionally Conan O’Brien or Jay Leno will talk about a celebrity’s latest Twitter outburst after they’ve been heckled, put down or argued with one too many times. It’s challenging to put yourself completely out there and then realize that not everyone is going to like what you have to say. What?!

To just about everything I’ve written so far, no matter how benign I thought it was, it’s been met with opposition in some sense. I am a novice in this whole public writing thing, but I have learned quickly that voicing an opinion means putting a target on your forehead. I am asking directly for comment and to be totally honest, it’s thrown me on my back a few times.

I wonder…is that what progress looks like?

I think so, but only if I can get back up and keep going. One of my grad school professors once said that “Rhetorical criticism is society’s homework.” And to simplify what that means is – pay attention and think about it! Why did Wendy Davis stand for 11 hours? Is it helpful to society that Justin Timberlake’s new video is a boob-fest? What’s going on in Syria and should we intercede? Why would someone eat 69 hot dogs on the 4th of July?

Then comment on it. Say something about it. I have opinions on all of those items, and trust me I’ll get to them.

My point is, what I’m trying to accomplish on this blog is to get you to think critically about what’s happening around you. You deserve a raise, why won’t you ask your boss for one? Are you intimidated or are there social constraints that are causing this stymie? Why are you (or your partner) changing your (her) last name after your wedding? Isn’t there some kind of importance to a female’s family name too? Or why can’t you ever be taken seriously in a meeting with people 20 years older than you, even though you’ve proven that you can keep up with similar work?

I spend a lot of time thinking about these things and about a bzillion more. I’ve counted once, and I actually got to a bzillion and one. So I use this blog to talk it out, and hopefully get some constructive feedback that will help us all understand our world a little better.

That said, I realize that there are things I have said, and am going to say, that are offensive. I’m not out to offend but if it’s going to bring more understanding or alternative thinking, then so be it. I can’t be intimidated.

(yes, this is just as much a pep talk for me as it is for you)

I have had a lot of people in my life who have genuinely tried to control my life, my mouth, and my body. I realize that sounds like an exaggeration but it’s absolutely true and I won’t let it happen anymore. One time when I told my Dad I wanted to be a doctor, he said, “Why can’t you do something more lady-like? Like be a nurse?” Another time, my slim 13-year-old self reached for a candy bar and my older brother grabbed it and put it on my skinny thigh and said, “You might as well just put it right here. Pretty girls don’t eat candy bars.”

You’ll see that I have a lot of opinions with regard to gender equality. Another thing to note is that I was born in Texas in a mostly white community. One time the black boy in my class wrote me a love letter and I showed it to a family member who said, “I don’t ever want to see you talk to that boy. White girls don’t talk to n——.”

Therefore, I have a lot of opinions in favor of racial equality. I have stories with regard to religious oppression, political nonsense, and animal rights too. And if I am paying attention, would it be right to stay silent so as not to rock the proverbial boat? Should I have just gone along with what I was told to do? I say no, and my words are my most powerful asset and therefore I will use them to try and make this society a better place.

I realize that some of you will not like what I have to say, but my point today is that I want to express that it’s coming from a good place. I try to keep it light with humor, but even that can bring further offense. Yet at least I’m out here trying, and I encourage you to do the same.

While I’ve ranted a little about how I’ve been affected by some of the responses, please don’t misunderstand me and think I don’t want to hear it. I encourage your feedback no matter how sharp (or friendly!) it is. We all have a voice, and my point here is to get those of us who are traditionally silent to stand up and really be who you are and say what you mean.

Vividly, I recall my 8-year-old self standing on the roof of my then-best friend’s house. It was just a single-story home, but I was standing on the edge of the fucking roof. I felt brave alright?!

Ahem, SO, logic had persuaded me that the side of the house was ideal because my adidas-encased feet would meet gravel, not pavement or rhododendron bushes.

Erin was blasting Dookie as she jeered me to jump before her Dad came outside to check on us. As a means to provoke myself I ran every 90’s idiom, quote, and slogan through my head:

“Just Do It!”

“You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.”

“No Fear.”

The one that did it was some Aladdin song, you know the one where he’s running away from the guards after he jacked a loaf of bread? “All you gotta do is JUMP!”

I sprang as far away from the house as my Gumby frog legs could launch me, holding my arms out as though I had finally turned into a bird. My bird/frog self remained suspended in the air for as long as a wait at the California DMV, and it was only then that I truly realized the gravity of what I had just done.

See what I did there? Gravity as in seriousness, but then also gravity as in the force of attraction by which terrestrial bodies tend to fall toward the center of the earth? THAT WAS SO ACCIDENTALLY CLEVER I CAN’T STAND IT.

Anyway, 7 years later, I landed on my feet and didn’t disintegrate into a pile of broken bones. Cheering, my buddy ran over and hugged me for my valiant behavior, an equal blend of bravery and sheer stupidity. We jumped (yeah, I could still jump) up and down screaming elated on endorphins, then debated on what to do next.

“Let’s go get the BB gun!” she decided excitedly.

“No, I don’t want to shoot at animals!” I rejected defiantly. Any badge of toughness I had just won was swiftly stripped away.

“OK you big baby, we’ll just shoot at cans,” she sighed and took off running toward the shed. I ran after her and spent the remainder of the afternoon practicing my shot. But my shot is absolutely terrible and I ended up accidentally shooting a squirrel anyway.

Da Fuq Does That Have to Do With Anything?

I swear I have a point. Well maybe I don’t but you’ve made it this far so you might as well find out.

Save the Squirrels.

Today I’m not standing on top of actual roofs egging myself to jump (most days…although recently I may or may not have climbed a tree at an amphitheater and perhaps might have jumped out of it prematurely and could have possibly been dragged to a medic because there’s a chance I might have been bleeding everywhere…maybe), but I am constantly standing on the edge of something, looking for new opportunities and adventures. There’s something important about forcing yourself to do new things even, and especially, if it’s scary as shit. It’s probably just acute ADD, but it’s there and it is.

Because honestly, it’s downright crazy not to take risks. Sometimes we stumble into situations and things end up pretty alright. The bills get paid, the town is pleasant enough, your job isn’t kill-self worthy, the person you spend your time contents you to some degree. It’s great and all that we’ve made it this far, but even if you’ve built your life into something, and that something is nice, is that something really the something that you were built for?

Perhaps there is something nagging. Something that you’ve always wanted to do or be or try and just haven’t been able to take the leap for one reason or another.

Personally, I’m not nearly as brave as I want to be. I try, but there’s more to do. And that kills me because there are so many things I crave doing and seeing and exploring. There are so many things I want to tell you but I’m scared to death of what will happen when I finally start to tell the real stories that created this monster who writes to you with such profane language.

We shouldn’t live this way. Why can’t any of us just get on a plane and say, “fuggetaboutit” and travel alone? There’s no real reason not to – unless you’re a convicted felon, in which case you’re stuck here, but you can always go to Kansas. I hear they have corn mazes.

Or open up to people for real? The worst that could happen is a few tears. Or quit your job and become that street performer you’ve always wanted to be? Sword juggling is coming back, I swear.

All that aside, this word vomiting is happening because I hear a lot of your explicit or implicit cries for something more. I see something special in a lot of the people I meet, and become frustrated when they don’t let those sparkling talents that are so clear to the rest of us become realized. I might not know you, but I know you weren’t built for just existing. Sedation. This is the easiest generation to numb ourselves into contentment, to sit back and let these passions die with age and security. It’s not just you, I look at myself all the time and realize I’m not pushing hard enough either.

So, maybe today is the day to take that leap. I know this is hopelessly optimistic, boundlessly foolish, and so hippie I would be kicked out of Woodstock for going “too far out maaaan.” But who gives a shit, that’s better than just floating along. Today’s a great day, in this wonderful summer we’re having, to sharply steer away from the path paved with fear and bound for mediocre security, and onto the one cobbled with unknown adventure and headed toward unparalleled fulfillment and passion.

I mean, yeah, there’s a chance you may fail. But my god — what if you succeed?*

*I totally jacked this from a quote somewhere. I don’t know where but it seemed to fit so I’m using it anyway.

**Okay I found it. I pinned it on my Pinterest board. There’s no author. I’d put a link to it but that just seems like a tacky way to get you to look at my Pinterest.

***Meh, screw it, I’m a blogger and all we do is shameful social sharing. That’s probably how you got here anyway. Here’s where I got that idea.

****Okay now go get out there, change the world, and try not to pelt a squirrel with a bb gun.

About a week and a half ago, my world turned upside down. Actually, it turned right side up. It was Sunday morning and I woke up at 3:30am, excited, nervous and energized. I had all my clothes laid out the night before and semi-quickly threw them all on. I popped my sprouted wheat bagel in the toaster and a minute later slathered it with peanut butter. By 4:15am I was out the door and headed to the train that would take me to downtown San Diego.

Sitting on the train, I munched away at the peanut buttery pastry and gabbed with fellow passengers about the event of the day. “I see you’re doing the full,” stated the woman who sat in the seat facing mine, “how many have you done?”

“This is my first,” I replied with nervous yet confident energy.

“Wow! What time are you going for?” asked the friend who sat next to her.

“Honestly, I’m just hoping that I don’t die.”

We laughed. That joke was my standing reply to just about any question regarding the marathon I was about to take on that day. Along the train ride to the event, I was comforted by waves of strength, allowing my muscles to assure me, “We are ready.” Conversely, I was assaulted by waves of concern, as I recalled images of marathoners collapsing from years before.

But alas, I arrived at Balboa Park, where behind the starting line 30,000 participants in the ½ and full Rock and Roll marathon were collected. Music was blasting and the buzz in the air was exhilarating. Everyone was friendly, from the medics dressed as Elvis-es, to the lady wearing a garbage bag to keep herself warm in the porta-potty line.

I eventually found my boyfriend, who 6 months earlier had agreed to follow me in training for the event. We made way to our corral, 4, and met our two other friends who we had done our training with. All of us had the same look on our faces – unbelievably excited but also realizing 26.2 miles is crazy…so a bit mad-hatter.

At 6:15am, the gun went off and we finally hit the pavement. .2 miles into it, a man dressed as a court jester was dancing in the middle of our path. He was dancing and cheering, holding a huge sign that said. “.2 down, only 26 to go!” My friends and I all looked at each other and laughed.

About another mile in, we hit Hillcrest, and in the center divider 8 or 9 men were dressed as female cheerleaders, donning short skirts and having stuffed their shirts with huge boob-like balloons. They danced and flailed their pom-poms, cheering louder than probably any of the many, many groups of cheerleaders along the way.

Just after mile 7 we were headed out of Little Italy, and into a tunnel under the 5 freeway. A DJ was blasting just outside the front of the tunnel, and as I descended into the cave, her beats cascaded through the hollowed concrete like enveloping sound waves. The air was pulsating all around me as I ran through the normally dark tunnel. The darkness was no longer, as instead lines of LED lights flashed everywhere, whose coordinated movement made that Sunday morning feel like the late night hours of San Diego’s hottest club.

I was feeling great. The streets were lined with supporters, and around every mile there was a band or DJ blasting music. The bib pinned to the front of my shirt had my name on it, and supporters often took the time to read my name and cheer, “GO JONI!!!!” The support from complete strangers was honestly one of the driving forces that kept my legs moving.

And that was very needed by around mile 16. Up until then I had no trouble flying up and down hills, but somewhere around Clairemont I was starting to feel my legs. That’s when the real mental games began playing, as I came to realize there’s another 10 miles to go and I was really nowhere near finishing.

But that particular wave of fatigue passed, and I made it to Friars road. Friars is a long stretch of garbage nothing in Mission Valley, so that’s when I realized I had better put in my headphones. After a few songs in, the My Chemical Romance song Welcome to theBlack Parade came on. I promise my taste in music is normally more sophisticated than that, but I do love that poppy-ass song. It very anthem-like and epic, so I let myself get into the lyrics and forget that I was still running:

We’ll carry on,

We’ll carry on

And though you’re dead and gone believe me

Your memory will carry on

We’ll carry on

And in my heart I can’t contain it

The anthem won’t explain it.

It took some effort to stop tears from falling down my cheeks, as I looked up and knew my Dad was somewhere in the clouds watching me run the greatest physical challenge of my life, cheering me on as he had all the years before. What can I say, I was on mile 19, anything was going to make me emotional. I instead channeled that energy and put it into my legs, stepping it up to hasten my pace a little quicker. I am confident he gave me that extra boost, with his hand on my back urging me to press forward.

At last I made it to the end of Friars but knew what was next…mile 20 and the 163. For months I had been dreading the 163, the portion of the race that covered the steep freeway, and the biggest hill of the marathon. This was certainly my monster to be reckoned with, as I really, really ridiculously am terrible at running hills. My hips lock up, my knees really start bitching, my breath quickens to the pace of gasping and my heart threatens to explode.

But dammit I made it and found myself in the last stretches of the race. Around mile 23 people started cheering that I was “Almost there!” I was ready to stop and slap each and every one of them, as I knew damn well there were 3.2 miles to go. But they handed me water and Gatorade so I let them yell their nonsense.

At last, I saw the jester from mile .2…but this time he was at mile 26. He was cheering and dancing with just as much energy as he had 26 miles ago, but this time I was happy to see that instead his sign said, “26 down, only .2 to go!” I smiled and laughed, and am pretty sure I have ever been so happy to see anyone again.

I looked up and in a small crane directly above me, cameras were flashing. I spread my arms wide and made peace signs with a giant grin. One of the cameramen gave me a thumbs up in approval, who I saw got the shot.

The crowd was now densely thick with people, as I learned later that 90,000 supporters turned out to line the streets with colorful signs and good will. Music was pumping, the commentator was screaming, and I could finally see the finish line. I reached deep into my now heavy wooden legs and with fury and exhilaration I stepped it up to a sprint. Complete strangers cheered me on those final steps as at last I crossed the finish line.

“I FUCKING DID IT!!!” I gasped to myself. One volunteer heard me and laughed as she handed me a water. I allowed another volunteer to place the coveted medal around my neck, and somehow I mustered out a “Thank you.” The area was absolutely packed with volunteers, supporters and runners. Everywhere I turned someone was trying to hand me something to hydrate or feed me, from Powerbars to chocolate milk to more glorious Gatorade. Camera people were frigging everywhere asking to take my photo. I realize they worked for the race and would try to sell me the shots later, but I decided to pretend I was a famed athlete and they were ESPN trying to get a good shot from my race. I posed and enjoyed the attention.

I decided I should try and find my friends. I knew from a Facebook invite my boyfriend had created weeks ago that many were going to turn out to support us. When I arrived at the family reunion section for letter S, I spotted a couple of my friends – one who did the marathon and one who did the half. “We did it!” I shouted as I approached. They turned around as quickly as they could, which wasn’t quick at all, and were both beaming smiles of pride. I learned the one who did the marathon had PR’ed (runner speak for Personal Record) and the other who did the half was handed beers that he accepted for the last few miles of his race. I was equally proud of both.

As the minutes passed, more and more of my friends appeared, congratulating me on my run. I was often asked my time, which I proudly could say was 04:18. Not too shabby for a first marathon in which you were hoping not to die. I chatted and bantered, but was anxiously looking for my boyfriend. He was nowhere.

“Where’s Scott?” I kept asking. I learned he was at the finish line and had wanted to see me cross. It was nice to realize that I ran faster than other people’s expectations.

“He’s on his way over here,” one of my girlfriends assured me confidently. So I chugged some more Gatorade and considered if I would ever bother doing another marathon again. While I was arguing with my exhausted muscles who pleaded with me never to put them through that again, I saw my tall, sweaty boyfriend approaching. “Finally!” I thought.

He was making his way through our now large group of friends and I couldn’t help myself but squeal, “WE DID IT!” I had my hands up in the air and gave him an awkward high five that somehow morphed into a hug.

He nodded, “Yeah” to my comment, but then didn’t seem to really want to talk about the race when I asked him about his time.

“Joni, there’s another reason why all our friends are here.” He said somewhat loudly and clearly nervously. All our friends heard and backed into a very neat circle around us. “Joni, we have been through everything together, highs and lows, we have now even run a marathon together.”

This is when I realized what was happening. My eyes widened and my already fatigued heart completely stopped. Out of the corner of my eye I saw my friends reacting similarly, holding up their phones to take pictures and slapping their hands over their mouths. A man with a giant camera was also filming, and I decided not to let my mind wander into what and who the hell that was.

Scott said some more words I honestly can barely recall, and then got down on one knee. All around me men were cheering and whistling while women were cooing, as I stood there with my jaw dropped and my legs about to collapse. Scott opened a box, exposing a gorgeous diamond solitaire, simultaneously saying the iconic words, “Will you marry me?”

I swear that I searched and searched for my voice, but it must have run off to the bathroom or something. Giving up I nodded as quickly as possible a “yes,” smiling and determined to make sure he knew how excited I was. Now for every other girl in my situation that’s not very difficult to muster, but I had just run a marathon and I was just trying to see straight.

My now classic head nod was accepted and he placed the ring on my finger. My eyes were still locked on his as he somehow was able to stand up and we hugged the greatest embrace I have ever felt. I forgot that there were other people in that general area, and when I came to, I realized that a crowd had formed about us. I started waving and stammering, unsure what to say but wanting to say it all.

Turns out the guy with the giant camera was a newsman from NBC, and I was happy to learn that the little snoop had caught the whole thing. Trying to hold back Anchorman jokes, I accepted when he promptly requested an interview. I am confident that I sounded like a complete moron, but I was thrilled that my emotions and moronic-ey were captured to always remember.

I am fairly decent at being able to articulate myself, but I will never be able to describe the cocktail of emotions I felt that day. After the newsman had left, my friends and I went to celebrate downtown. Somehow later I was at a rooftop pool, surrounded with amazing people, a diamond on my finger and a medal around my neck. In the same day I had met my greatest physical challenge and accepted the greatest love of my life as my lifelong partner. I don’t know how I have become so lucky, but all I can say is…YES.

This weekend I found myself in several situations where I didn’t know every single person in the room/backyard/boat. As is normative social decorum, I engaged in get-to-know-you small talk.

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

“Oh, I hear it’s nice there. I’ve never been.” (No one in California has been to Seattle.)

“Yeah, it rains a lot, but the music’s great.”

There is also…

“Where did you go to school?”

“UW and SDSU.”

“What’s UW?”

“The University of Washington.”

“Oh…well SDSU! Go Aztecs!”

Seriously California. There are other states up north you know. Stupid…surf…culture…anyway, those are two conversations I am always having. The third is of course:

“What do you do?”

“I work at a start-up internet company.”

“Oh cool! What is it?”

“We do online reputation management. We’ve only been around for 2 years, and no you haven’t heard of us.”

“How exciting! What do you do there?”

“I do training and development. But it’s a start-up, so I do a lot more than that.”

I think I’ve narrowed it down pretty well and I try to keep it to that. My job is pretty challenging to explain, and I don’t like to go on and on about it, because then I’m the girl talking a lot about herself, and that’s just weird in the small talk get-to-know-you convos. However, people seem to find what I do interesting.

Does that mean I’ve “made it?” When I first got the job offer a month after I graduated, I was stoked. I’ve been there for a year now and I must say, it is rewarding. Working at a small company has a lot of great perks, but there is one thing that makes it just like every single job I’ve ever had – I’m working for someone else’s dream.

I was in Trader Joe’s two weeks ago and the ringer-upper guy asked me what I do. I told him the standard, “I work at a start-up internet company,” answer, and surprisingly he responded, “Oh wow! Your own?”

Sadly I admitted, “No.”

That really got me thinking. Joe there, not knowing one thing about me, had enough faith in me to think that I could possibly be an entrepreneur. That I am so dedicated to my ideas and have enough drive and determination to get an idea off of the ground and start my own company.

After that experience, I’ve really been thinking about this whole, “what do you do,” thing. I’ve always been the type to resist being put in the box of my profession. When I worked as a barista for a billion years in every coffee shop in the greater Seattle region, I never really thought of that as my “identity.” I mean sure, I kind of liked it. I was in my teens and early 20’s and it was around the time The Barista was sort of a cool thing to be. So me and my tattoos, dark-rimmed glasses and poetry books would make coffee and use big words to prove I that I was doing this gig just to get through college. “Nope, just making coffee, this is not who I am…but yes you can compliment how well I can make a latte.”

Damn a latte sounds good right now…

Anyway, now that I really think about it, I have never taken a job I would have been ashamed to tell other people about. I worked at a TV station, casting agency, newspaper, university, you can pretty much name any sort of profession that doesn’t happen under a bridge and I’ve done it. And while I genuinely liked each of those jobs to some extent, every single time I always had this bit of a divider like, “This is just what I DO, but it’s not who I AM.” I figured work life would always be that way.

Then I stumbled upon a thought. When you meet any of your friends who are really doing what they want to do, they are excitedly proud to tell you that what they do is who they are.

That last one has a little sting to it, because that’s the one that I want. While I have a pretty rad job, it’s not what I dreamed I would be doing as baby Joni. I was the kid who learned how to read well before any of my peers, and quickly began writing the second I found a sharpened pencil. All throughout school my teachers told me about my “gift,” and I shrugged it off hoping the other kids didn’t hear how big of a nerd I was.

“Ssshhhh!!” I thought, as I tried to drown that talent with cooler ones like sports or music. Those decisions to seek flashier, more lucrative professions, and not be the writer my 2nd grade teacher saw, brought me here. My belief that writing was a silly hobby, and work was adult career life, is to blame. And now when someone asks me what I do, my answer is still not quite what I’m looking for. Jon Acuff, a young writer who is starting to see some success, brings up a good point:

“We end up thinking that we can really have two different versions of ourselves, ‘work me’ and ‘life me.’ …When you think about it, the ‘it’s just a job’ belief is crazy. Imagine telling a friend, ‘I have to go somewhere five days a week, dedicate the majority of my waking hours to it, let it control my vacation and travel plans…but I don’t consider it part of my life.” (Acuff, 2011, p. 230-231)

By the way, this excerpt is from a book called Quitter and I do not recommend brining this book to work, and then getting caught by your boss reading it…that was not a fun week.

Anyway, he is right. We are one, whole person. And I think that this is the big career crisis that my generation faces. We are blessed more than any other generation to have the means to see beyond the “if I don’t work my family will starve to death or wind up eating rocks,” crisis that has plagued most of human existence. We are the most coddled generation, whose parents have the ability to help us if we fall. We have always been encouraged to chase our dreams, never give up, and be all you can be.

And I think that’s why so many of us are so bummed out by our jobs. I think I can safely say that most of my friends live for the weekend, and I can’t really exclude myself from that conversation. As much as I enjoy my work sometimes, I hate Mondays and love Fridays.

The problem with that is, I clearly have a problem with work if I’m saddened by the very thought of 5 whole days of it ahead of me. Or am thrilled with the thought of 2 whole days that I don’t have to go there.

So that leads me to believe that I in fact haven’t made it yet. Mom told me to be what I wanted to be, and I’m not being it yet, and that bums me out every Monday. When Trader Joe asks me what I do, I want to answer confidently, “I’m an author.” He will then answer, “Oh! What do you write?” And so on and so forth.

How cool would that be?!?!

For now, I have a pretty good answer. But there’s still a “but” in it. “I work at a startup company in training and development, but I want to be an author.” I’ll bet there’s a lot of you out there that have the same predicament.

So play a game with me. How would you fill in those blanks? “I’m a ______, but I want to be a ________.” I have a feeling getting to the second blank is a reality you can make happen. What are you doing to get there?

As for me, I’m reading like a crazy person, working hard at a job I like (notice, not love), and planning for the next step by saving skrilla and writing early in the morning and late at night. I’m doing it because the opportunity is there if I want it, if I’m willing to fight for it. No one is going to hand me a book deal just because I think I have talent. I’m not going to be walking in the park one day and a man in a beret will shout from across the courtyard, “Hey you! Hey you there! You are clearly a beautiful writer and belong on the New York Times Bestseller list! Come with me and I will make you a star!” But if that does happen I’ll let you know which park.

We are a generation that has been encouraged to dream, and we easily get depressed when we feel we haven’t “made it” to remarkable fame, wealth, whatever it is that you want. But the opportunity for artists of all kinds is available. Tradesmen/women can get into a technical college when they are willing to do the work. Entrepreneurs have a chance to make that purse-for-cats idea a reality if they try.

The only thing separating us from that, sometimes, is our dichotomous “work me” and “life me” identity crisis. We tell ourselves that our “life me” can never be our “work me,” so sometimes it can be hard to make the blanks of who we really want to be happen.

But I encourage you to try. I mean, I really want to see a cat carrying a purse one day, so I’m hoping you’ll go ahead and step it up to make that happen.